.002 |  THE LIVING, BREATHING GIFT OF JOY

THE GLOW OF THE COMPUTER SCREEN pierced the midnight darkness of the bedroom. Leif’s gentle snore rumbled like a purring cat. At least one of us was able to sleep.

The day after receiving my dreadful diagnosis, I spent hours phoning friends who worked in the medical profession or had also fought the big C. In my hunt for the finest medical team, one friend offered a helpful piece of advice: “The most important person you will work with is the oncologist.” Though I’d be under the watch of surgeons, radiologists, nurse practitioners, physical therapists, nurses, nutritionists, and more, the oncologist I chose would serve as the quarterback of my medical team.

So there I sat, propped on pillows in the middle of the night, sifting through Colorado’s most renowned oncologists on Google.

I read patient reviews, dissected educational credentials, and cataloged areas of expertise. One name stood above the rest: an associate professor and researcher who specialized in treating women under age forty-five with a cancer diagnosis.

Her face beamed from my screen. On paper, she was what I was looking for. She held degrees from the finest medical schools in the nation and managed her own research laboratory with funding from world-famous foundations. I needed to know if she would embrace my unconventional strategy for facing this crisis. Would she be willing to support me as I searched for ways to fight back with joy?

I scheduled an appointment to find out.

The morning of our meeting, before I finished dressing, I popped the top off a black Magic Marker and jotted a cheeky joke across my breast. A mischievous grin stretched across my face as I buttoned my blouse and shouted to Leif that I was ready.

The nurse ushered us into the procedure room where the smell of disinfectant wafted in the air. We waited for the oncologist’s arrival. Leif rubbed my back as I closed my eyes, taking a series of calming breaths. If time hurried, maybe my nerves would stop feeling like fiery metal springs.

The sound of the door cracking startled me. My back stiffened. A confident woman with chestnut hair entered the room, greeting us with a strong handshake. Without the slightest hint of being in a hurry, she explained the test results from the biopsy and outlined a plan for treatment. She shared hot-off-the-press information from the latest medical studies.

In addition to being brilliant and well studied, she dispensed the right dose of compassion. This doctor managed to find subtle ways to affirm my humanity and hers. It shone when she stopped to pet our dog, Hershey, as we talked, and in the hug she offered even though I didn’t feel like getting one. These subtle actions reminded me that we were in this together—no matter what might come—in ways that words could never capture.

She shared difficult news without panic and provided optimistic news with caution. Her aptitude to remain even-keeled made me not just like her but trust her. As if in response to her measured presence, my muscles relaxed and breathing eased.

I peppered her with questions for the next hour. She never ruffled. I appreciated that she didn’t hesitate to admit what she didn’t know—what no doctor could know—about the fight that lay ahead. She refused to sugarcoat the toughness of the next eighteen months of our lives, explaining in gritty detail the upcoming procedures.

The moment of truth came: the examination.

The instant she drew back the thin blue hospital gown, her head tilted to the side, with one eyebrow raised. She inched forward, straining to read my poor penmanship.

A grin cracked on her face. And then it widened. And then her teeth spread into in a full smile. And she began to laugh. Victory!

Walking out of her office, I knew that I had found the person to lead the fight. Her gusty laughter signaled she was willing to fight back with joy alongside me. Even in the face of darkness, she held on to humor. She would mastermind the medical strategy as I chose to fight back with joy.

“That woman is going to be my general,” I said to Leif. “No, she will be my queen. That’s what I will nickname her: ‘The Queen.’”

The label seemed fitting enough, because I knew before her I would live or die.

One well-meaning friend attempted to correct my reasoning later: “No, it’s before God that you live or die.”

“That may be true,” I said. “But it sure feels like The Queen can make that timeline shorter by what she chooses to do or leave undone.”

Leif and I soon engaged in some of the most difficult, sobering conversations of our lives with The Queen. What are the odds of recurrence? What is my life expectancy? How will each medical decision affect quantity as well as quality of life? No matter how dark the question, The Queen punctuated her answers with hope and, at appropriate moments, humor.

The practice of scrawling silly jokes on my chest soon became a litmus test, determining whether a doctor was right for me or not. The first surgeon I met spoke in complicated medical jargon. With some effort I broke through the technical language barrier, but when she stared stone-faced at my inky attempt at humor, I knew I needed to keep looking.

The second surgeon was the complete opposite. She spoke at a street level I could grasp and burst out laughing at the hieroglyphics under my hospital gown. On the drive home, I raved to Leif about how much I liked her.

“Did you notice her name?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted.

“Her name was Joyce Moore,” Leif replied.

“So?”

“Don’t you see it? Your surgeon’s name is Joyssss More,” he said, stretching out the “s” in her first name. “Her name declares More Joy!”

I sat wonderstruck.

These were among the first signs God was not just with us in this journey, but he was going before us, braiding together the people to advise us, partner with us, and laugh with us.

In the early days of my fight, The Queen and Joyce Moore weren’t the only ones on our team.

Friends promised to stick by us, readers rallied, and key people reminded us they were petitioning God on our behalf every day. My friend, Jonathan, sent a ridiculous pair of unicorn slippers so I could chuckle in the mornings. One pastor, Ray, mailed an honorarium check to not speak at his next conference. The contract required me to remain home and rest. My friend, Carolyn, sent me a dozen shimmery red Mylar balloons with a note that said she was fighting back with joy beside me. Unbelievably, they remained aloft for nearly six weeks.

People mailed us gift cards so we could swing by an organic grocery store on the way home from the hospital and slipped us cash to purchase medical supplies and inch down mounting hospital bills. Leif’s swim team rallied to provide groceries and movie tickets for a much-needed date night. One aunt texted me beautiful photos almost every day; another sent a bizarre description of the size of a cow tongue that made me giggle.

Love flooded our hearts and did what love organically does—heal. Their gift of presence signified these friends were with me and for me, and not because I had anything to offer. No, the opposite was true: they loved me though I had nothing.

In the fights of life, people can be conduits of great joy and deep refreshment.

Though I was tempted to withdraw and hide from everyone, surrounding myself with people who showed themselves safe and compassionate breathed joy into my dry bones. They provided reasons to laugh. They lifted me with their generosity. Their acts of love distracted me from the darkness and reoriented me toward hope. They became incarnate reminders of God’s fierce love.

Friends are living, breathing gifts of joy.

One of the smallest books of the Bible reminds us of the importance of relationships. Paul’s short epistle to Philemon is closely associated with the book of Colossians. While the apostle’s letter to the Colossians was sent to the church in general, his letter to Philemon is directed toward one member.

Before addressing the main reason for the correspondence—to ask for the freedom and forgiveness of a runaway slave named Onesimus—in his letter to Philemon, whom he appears to know well, Paul revels in Philemon’s friendship and faithfulness.

“Your love has given me great joy and encouragement, because you, brother, have refreshed the hearts of the Lord’s people.”

Throughout his travels, Paul undoubtedly interacted with thousands of people. Some were unforgettable for their rabble-rousing, belligerence, and badmouthing. Others were distinguished by their kindness, loyalty, and generosity.

Writing from a cold, dank prison cell, Paul ranks Philemon as among the best kind of people to encounter—someone who steeps others in courage and hope.

We don’t know what Philemon did to make such an impact on Paul or the fledgling church. Was it a particular act? A character trait that Philemon exuded? Paul doesn’t say. But we do know that Philemon brought joy to a desperate situation.

In fact, Philemon’s love didn’t just bring Paul joy; Paul said it elicited great joy and encouragement within him.

Some might think that Philemon must have been one of those boisterous types who was often the center of attention. But the kind of joy Paul attributes to Philemon doesn’t fade with the spotlight. Rather, Philemon’s expressions of tangible love brought cool refreshment to those he encountered.

Whatever Philemon’s disposition, he became a source of paraklesis, a Greek word meaning “encouragement” or “comfort.” Paul’s resolve was strengthened through the friendship. This was most likely a two-way street for the church leaders. Through the time they spent together, Philemon and Paul bolstered courage and brought comfort. So much so that distance could not break their bond. Just the thought of their friendship ignited a spark of sincere gratitude in Paul’s heart.

Philemon’s influence went beyond Paul and “refreshed the hearts” of the “Lord’s people.” The word “refreshed” in this verse comes from the Greek word anapauo, which suggests calming someone who has become disturbed or replenishing someone by giving comfort. Paul uses this same word four times throughout his letters to describe those who replenished his spirit during ministry.

Often when we think about refreshment, we think about activities that breathe life into our weary bones. That much-needed nap. Those few hours at the spa. The afternoon by the pool. But it’s not just activities that refresh us. People replenish us. That friend who is slow to speak but quick to listen. That person who doesn’t want to fix you as much as care for you. The relationship where you can simply be yourself. The companion who has mastered the art of speaking truth in love. People who cheer you up and cheer you on can be like life-saving medicine.

That replenishment goes deep. When Paul says Philemon refreshed the “hearts” of God’s people, the Greek word used is splanchna, meaning “bowels.” In the ancient world, the bowels were believed to be the seat of our most passionate emotions, the underground of our inner feelings. This is emotionally charged language. In essence, Paul is saying that Philemon’s love affects people at their cores in the most profound and powerful way.

These are the choice words Paul uses to describe Philemon. This is not flattery but sincere gratitude. They highlight Philemon’s character and his effect on those around him.

Paul had a remarkable friend. Someone who stood by him on the battlefield of life. Someone he could call on in a time of need. Someone who reminded him that he was fiercely loved.

We need people who will reach out and hold our hands whenever we find ourselves walking in the dark. People who are quick to put our hearts at ease and swift to remind us how much we are loved. These are the friends who refresh us deep down when we need it most.

These relationships are gifts worth seeking. Developing flourishing friendships takes time and intentionality, but these become the people who ground us and keep us going. They become peepholes through which we glimpse the kingdom of God, inspiration to become the best possible versions of ourselves even in the most difficult circumstances.

For me, true refreshers didn’t sympathize with the burden, or worse, add to it; but rather, they entered in and did the hard work of carrying the weight. They included April, who accompanied me on doctor-prescribed walks. Shelley, who prayed for me each morning. Kara, who came with me to key doctor appointments. Carol and Marty, who stood by ready to do anything we needed. They provided the gift of their presence and in the process gave me glimpses into the holy.

In the battles of your life, who fights with you? Who is your Queen? Your Joyce Moore? Your grocery-buying swim team? Who is your Philemon?

The Great Joy Giver is parachuting people into your life to remind you that you are not alone. Perhaps you’ve been distracted by those who have vanished. Or maybe you’ve dismissed those who have reached out to help. Could it be time to open your eyes and heart to those God has sent? To embrace the joy waiting in their presence? To lay hold of the connection that emerges from being in the foxhole together?

I think of a woman named Judy, who became too ill to attend a weekend retreat where I was speaking. Her closest friends didn’t want her to miss a moment of the event, but bringing home recordings of the sessions wasn’t enough. They snapped a photo of Judy, enlarged her face to life size, printed two copies, and taped them back-to-back over a wooden paint stick. Judy-on-a-stick traveled to the conference with them. Judy’s friends clicked hilarious snapshots of her enjoying breakfast in bed, listening to speakers, and shopping at her favorite stores. Judy-on-a-stick sunbathed on the beach and worked out at the gym. Judy’s inbox swelled with photos, not of the event she had to miss but of just how much she was missed.

Or I think of my friend Matt. Sexually abused as a child by an older boy in the neighborhood, he spent decades wrestling with same-sex attraction. Feelings of guilt, shame, and regret compounded as he tried to keep his indiscretion quiet. In one swoop, his secret broke loose for everyone to see. He drove home that night not wanting to live another day. Meanwhile, a candlelit crowd gathered in his driveway. Friends awaited his homecoming. Friends who embraced him, prayed with him, and told him how much he was fiercely loved.

Or take my friend Liv. Her youngest son, Brett, was born with severe autism. Unable to speak, this fun-loving child morphed as he entered his teenage years. Just a few weeks ago, Brett attacked his parents and siblings. His punching, biting, and ripping out their hair left permanent scars. Liv doesn’t know what to do. But whatever she says she needs, her friends work hard to provide. They continue to stand by her, encourage her, and help her to raise money for other families facing autism within the community. They are committed to fight with joy beside her.

Some of our darkest times following the diagnosis were when Leif and I were all alone. Yet people unleashed all sorts of creative expressions to break through the thick fog of loneliness. One family made videos of what brought them joy—including their ten-year-old son jumping around on the school playground—to encourage us to keep fighting back. Our friend Tracee forwarded hilarious articles she found on the Internet. Together, our friends reminded us they were with us no matter how many or few miles separated us.

Whenever you experience a sense of withness—the awareness that others are alongside you—you can’t help but experience the presence of joy.

Merrymaking is hard to do alone. Hilarity is best shared with others. Cheer is discovered in camaraderie.

Even if you feel alone, God has positioned people waiting in the wings to spring into action. They may not be the faces of those you expect, but if you keep your heart and eyes open, you may be surprised whom God uses.

When crises come, one of the greatest joys is knowing who is fighting with and for you. With chemotherapy just days away, I was about to find out how much I needed my team of joy warriors.